Free Hot Little Hands by Abigail Ulman Page A

the room and I was just wearing my leotard, but suddenly I felt warm, like I was bundled up in a winter coat with a hat on top.
    “And, last, Anastasya,” Coach Zhukov said, and my tall friend came and stood beside me.
    “No way,” I said.
    “I know,” she whispered. “I’m not even good enough.”
    “You are so.” I took her hand and squeezed it.
    The rest of the girls sat cross-legged on the floor, staring up at us. I could tell they felt awful. I would have hated me if I hadn’t been me, standing there at the front of the room beside the teacher and the other chosen girls.
    “Okay, everyone, let’s begin our warm-ups as usual. Xenia, please start the tape.” Coach Zhukov turned to us and smiled. “Well done, girls. Now I have some forms for you to take home to your parents.”
    The coach said that both Ehma and Anastasya would do floor routines, Vera would be on the uneven bars, and I would be on the balance beam. He said we could choose our own music, and straight away I knew which song I wanted to use: “Ya Soshla S Uma” by t.A.T.u. (I love t.A.T.u.)
    We set to work practicing but I couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than three seconds at a time. That’s how long it took my mind to wander back to one thought: I am going to America. It was my second lucky break.
    My excitement lasted the two hours of practice and the twenty-minute trolleybus ride home. It ended a minute after I’d come into the kitchen and put the forms on the table, where my parents and grandmother were sitting down for dinner.
    “You can’t go,” my dad said. “You know we can’t afford it. We can barely afford the lessons.”
    “Coach Zhukov said the conference people pay for our tickets.”
    “All the way to America,” my mother said, spreading margarine onto a piece of bread. “For a three-minute gymnastics routine.”
    “It’s not even a competition,” my father said.
    “The coach said it’s good exposure,” I told them.
    My parents looked at each other and tried to make a silent decision.
    “Please!” I said. “When else will I get to go to America? For gymnastics!”
    “In the middle of the school year.”
    “I can ask the teachers for extra homework so I won’t fall behind. It’s just six days. Look, the form says.”
    My mother dipped her bread in her ukha and took a bite. She pulled the form toward her. I watched her face soften as she read what Coach Zhukov had written about the conference.
    “San Diego,” she said.
    “Yes,” I said, silently willing her to keep reading. “California.”
    “It’s sunny there all year round,” my father said.
    “Really?” I took my coat and scarf off and hung them by the front door, instead of throwing them in a pile on the floor like I usually do, like my mother hates.
    “Even in winter,” he said.
    My grandmother, who had stayed silent the entire time, finished eating and dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clink. “A twelve-year-old girl,” she said, nodding while she talked, “alone in a foreign country with some teacher you hardly know.” She stood up and pushed her chair back. “You’d have to be crazy.”
    “I’m almost thirteen,” I said loudly as she left the room. But my father’s face told me all I needed to know about my chances of getting to California.
    “Your grandmother’s right,” my dad said. “You’re too young.”
    “It’s not fair.” I started to cry.
    “Here.” My mother pushed a bowl across the table toward me.
    “And don’t tell me that thing about life not being fair.”
    “Well, it’s true,” my father said.
    “Maybe it is,” I said. “But it’s more fair for adults than it is for kids. At least you get to decide what you can do.”
    “Eat something,” my mother said.
    “What’s the point? If I can’t go to America, I’d rather starve and die.”
    —
    My birthday party becomes my farewell party. All my friends attend but instead of giving me birthday gifts, like stickers or candies,